


Honest Sound

by visiblemarket



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, javert is not a morning person, the usual post-seine everyone lives au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-17 11:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For the Valvert Gift Exchange: 14.  Some sleepy, bed hair Javert, with Valjean mocking him for it</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honest Sound

It's a cold morning, dark and grey. The sun hasn't risen yet and he can, if he peers through the murky glass, see the sidewalks still coated with grimy snow, the streets slick with black water. He feels the chill of the kitchen's stone floor even through his slippers.

He is glad for the warmth behind him, sudden as it is, for the press of lips to the back of his neck that’s not quite a kiss, and the tight but careful embrace. 

"Good morning," he ventures, and there's the expected grunt to the contrary in response. He smiles. "Would you like some coffee?"

He takes the low grumble and distracted, stubbly nuzzle at the nape of his neck as a yes. No other movement follows, though. 

"May I?" 

A sigh, and the arm around his waist slips away, slowly, palm dragging across his stomach as it goes. 

He sets about lighting the stove; hears a chair being pulled out behind him, the slight scrape of wood on the stone floor. 

He turns, kettle in hand, to fetch the water, and is confronted by the sight of Javert, slouching in his chair as if in blatant defiance of his normally upright posture. His elbows are braced on the rough wood table before him, his hands covering his face. 

To say his hair is disheveled is to be more than merciful, perhaps out right dishonest as to its severity. It’s as though the man has quite recently fought his way through a storm of wind and hail and other extreme acts of weather, then been assaulted by tree branches, just to add insult to injury. 

Valjean swallows a chuckle. 

He must not do a very good job of it, or perhaps Javert notices his sudden stillness where he would normally be bustling. One of his hands moves (pushes back a particularly errant lock of hair in the process, which clears his line of sight perhaps but does nothing to improve the overall condition), and he fixes one bleary, half-hooded eye on Valjean.

"What?" he half groans, half growls. 

"Nothing," Valjean says, hurriedly turning in order to hide his smile. He goes to fill the kettle with water, breaking the cap of ice that has formed. He glances back: Javert has dropped his head and pillowed it against his own arm where it is flat against the table. The raised tufts of hair at the back of his head are, if anything, even more endearingly mussed than the rest. Valjean suspects he is to blame for their state, having tangled them around his fingers them repeatedly the night before. 

"You are staring," Javert grumbles, petulant, and Valjean tsks at him.

"I am looking. You would tell me if that was illegal, surely."

A sarcastic almost-laugh is Javert's only response as Valjean sets the water to boil. He turns around; Javert is slumped over once again, and he does not react even as Valjean approaches and settles into the chair perpendicular to his. 

"What are you looking at, then?" Javert says, not raising his head, or opening his eyes. Valjean is tempted to run his fingers through the tousled curls cascading over his forehead. 

"You." 

"Why?"

"I enjoy it."

Javert groans and lifts his head. His scorn is much more difficult to take seriously with the large, inexplicable clump of hair behind his left ear, but Valjean does his best to appear chastened. He presses a hand over his mouth as a precaution, smoothes down the corners as subtly as he can.

"Have you had a chance to observe yourself in the mirror this morning, Javert?" he says, mildly, as if making conversation.

Javert's eyes narrow, even as he shakes his head, setting his curls bouncing again. Valjean brings his hand over his mouth again. 

"No. Should I have?” Valjean gives a casual shrug and Javert sighs. Rises, slower than he perhaps intends; the cold seems to have that effect on him, though Valjean knows better than to comment on it. “I was not aware you had such exacting standards for breakfast, _Monsieur_ ,” he says, with a huff, and moves to leave. 

Valjean reaches for him, and draws him back. “Wait,” he says, hand around Javert’s wrist as he drags him toward the window. The glass is thick, the reflection murky, but enough to glean a general impression. Javert glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and Valjean doesn’t bother to hide his chuckle.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” he says, pulling his wrist out of Valjean’s grasp. “It’s not that bad.” He runs his fingers through it, trying to settle the chaotic tangle. It only adds to the general disarray, and Valjean laughs, which earns him a particularly cutting glare. “I don’t know why you’re so amused.”

“I’m not,” he says, unconvincingly, as he goes to wet his hands in the icy water.

“And lying about it as well, that’s—cold!” Javert yelps, trying to duck away from Valjean as he runs his fingers through the man’s hair, but not, in the end, trying very hard. 

“It’ll warm soon.” He keeps his tone cheerful, and his movements efficient. Javert frowns at him and glances back at his reflection.

“You’re making it worse.”

“Impossible.” But in fairness he may be; his attempts have left wet, matted clumps molding to the shape of Javert’s skull, and the overall effect is not what he’d been hoping for.

“Yes, thank you for your efforts, Valjean,” Javert says, pushing his hands away and huffing again. His nostrils flare, and Valjean can barely stand to look at him without laughing again. He turns rather than reveal it.

“I’ll fetch you a comb, shall I? Cosette has surely—” 

“I’ve a comb of my own, _thank you_.” Javert walks out, making obvious effort to appear calm and not like a child stamping out of the room in a fit of insulted pique. 

The water boils. Coffee is made. Javert returns, still scowling, with his hair tied back. A few greying strands curl defiantly at the base of his neck, but there is obvious improvement. 

They drink in silence. Javert looks at him several times, eyes narrowed, an obvious challenge. He bites his lip each time, then takes careful sips of coffee and swallows them slowly. 

Finally, Javert sighs. “Well?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he says, and Javert frowns in anticipation. “But perhaps tonight, I could braid it for you, as I once did for Cosette.” 

Valjean would not have been surprised if the look Javert throws him had turned the coffee before him to ice, but as it does not, he takes one last sip, and smiles to himself. 

It has been a very good morning indeed.


End file.
